


A Modest Proposal

by arts_and_letters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Eventual Johnlock, M/M, The sign of the Four, a bit of angst, and a healthy dose of feels, plus lots of Johnlock banter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3413864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arts_and_letters/pseuds/arts_and_letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a proposal for John, one that would solve both of their problems. Unfortunately, John doesn't quite see it that way, but Sherlock has never been one to give up without a fight. While they try to work out their relationship issues, they will also have to contend with one of their most intriguing cases to date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Proposition

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself that I wouldn’t start any more WIPs until I wrapped up my other ongoing stories, but I just couldn’t help myself! I've had this story idea floating around for awhile. This story is set Post Season 1, but Pre-Reichenbach Fall. Although I will work in some events from season 2 and season 3, there will also be a fair amount of canon divergence. 
> 
> The title of this work is a reference to the Jonathan Swift satire by the same name.
> 
> Also, for any of you ACD fans, this first case is based on the Sign of the Four.
> 
> Enjoy!

John is sitting in his chair, reading the morning paper, when Sherlock walks in from the other room, and stands directly in front of him.

At first John ignores him, but when Sherlock continues standing there wordlessly, John sets down the paper, and looks up at the other man, who seems even more imposing than usual when viewed from a seated position 

Sherlock seems serious, but not upset, so all John says is, “Can I help you?” 

“I’ve come to a decision.”  
  
“Okay, sure.” A pause and then, “About what?” ~~  
~~

“I think it’s time for you to stop dating.’

“Hold on—” 

“It’s clearly a waste of time—both yours and mine. I have to go solve crimes on my own while you’re off courting women that you obviously can’t stand.”  
  
“That’s not true. I really liked Lisa—” 

“Do you remember her birthday? Her mother’s name? Her occupation?”  
  
“She was,” another pause, “a librarian.”  
  
“Nope—secretary.”  
  
“How do you remember that?”  
  
“I don’t! I have no idea what she did, and clearly you don’t either.”  
  
“So, I should just stop dating women because you think it’s pointless?”  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
“Even by your standards, this is utterly insane.”  
  
“It’s perfectly logical.”  
  
“No it isn’t. Besides, this isn’t about logic.”  
  
“Everything is about logic.”  
  
“Not love.”  
  
“You didn’t _love_ any of those women.”  
  
“Um, no, not really.”  
  
“Have you ever loved _any_ woman? And I don’t mean your mother or your lesbian, alcoholic sister.”

“I just haven’t found the right person yet.”

“Or maybe there is no right one.”  
  
With forced optimism, John retorts, “I guess I won’t know unless I keep trying.”

“Why do you insist on being so painfully, willfully dense?”                             

“Sherlock, if you’re going somewhere with this, you’re going to have to spell it out for me, because quite frankly, I have no idea what you’re going on about.”  
  
“It’s not my fault that you’re an idiot!”  
  
“Um, okay. Can I go back to reading the paper now? Or do you want to forbid me from wearing jumpers too?”

“I’m sure the king of England couldn’t prevent you from wearing your beloved, thread-worn, misshapen jumpers.”  
  
“Well, maybe if we had a king, but we don’t—which you would know if you spent more time reading the paper and less time making decisions about _my_ love life.”  
  
“Or lack thereof.”  
  
With those final words, Sherlock turns on his heel and throws himself into the chair opposite John. In one fluid movement, he wraps his arms around the union jack pillow, clutches it to his chest and puts his feet up on the coffee table, deliberately on top of the newspaper. 

John forcefully yanks the papers out from under Sherlock’s feet, while Sherlock just stares petulantly at the floor.  
  
Under his breath, John mutters, “If Lestrade doesn’t find you a case soon, I’m going to go on a killing spree just to get you out of this bloody flat for a day.” 

“Don’t bother. I’m sure any murder you attempt would be trivially easy for me to solve.”  
  
“Cocky bastard.”  
  
Sherlock shrugs, and a smile pulls at the corner of his lips, as he forgets for a moment that he’s supposed to be sulking, but then the next second, his features turn serious, he pushes himself out of the chair, goes to his violin, and begins to play angrily. 

For his part, John shrugs and returns to reading the paper.

 

   
 

Later that evening, Sherlock in reclining on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, when John comes down the stairs. 

Without even bothering to sit up, Sherlock remarks, “Going on another date, I presume.”  
  
“Um, yeah. How did you know?”  
  
“Lucky guess.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
Now Sherlock sit up, with a movement so sharp that it is almost startling. 

“Of course it wasn’t. I never guess! Guessing is for people who are blind and witless.”  
  
“Like me.”  
  
“Like you and Lestrade and the rest of the ignorant world.”  
  
John opens his mouth to respond, but Sherlock jumps in with his deductions before John can get out a single syllable.

“First of all, that sickening cologne—it’s expensive, so you only use it on dates, although I’ve worked with laboratory grade chemicals that smell more enticing. Maybe that’s why you almost never get further than—” 

“ _Sherlock—“_

“And then that bloody jumper you’re wearing. I hate it, but you love it. You never wear it when we’re on a case or when you’re going out for a night at the pub with Stamford.”  
  
“Okay, I suppose—”

“And I can tell you’re planning on taking her for a nice romantic walk.”

“You couldn’t possibly—”  
  
“Your shoes—not your nicest pair, so not typical date shoes—but comfortable for walking—and your coat is heavy enough to be worn for extended periods outside.” 

“Are you done yet?” 

“I could go on.”  
  
“Yeah, you probably could, but you’ll have to save it for later or share your commentary with the skull. I can’t be late for dinner.”  
  
Before Sherlock can say anything else, John is out the door.

  
 

 

  

When John returns home—just a few minutes past midnight—the lights are all out at Baker Street, which is odd. 

 _Rather early for Sherlock to be asleep. Maybe he’s gone out?_  

A moment later, John dismisses the thought. No chance of that. Sherlock would only have left the flat for a case, and if there had been a case, Sherlock certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to interrupt John’s date to inform him.

Sleeping it is, then.

Deciding to be quiet so as not to wake Sherlock, he carefully tiptoes up the stairs and gently opens the door to their flat. 

The first thing he notices is the strong smell of tobacco.  
  
 _Definitely best not to wake Sherlock. If he’s been smoking in the house, there’s no telling how irritable he could be._  

John doesn’t bother turning on the lights as he takes off his coat and prepares to hang it on the door, but then he’s startled by— 

“So I take it the date was a success?”  
  
John turns around sharply to see Sherlock lying on the couch. 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you can’t do that.”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“Pop up out of nowhere.” 

“I didn’t come out of nowhere. I’ve been here the whole time.” 

“Yeah, but normal people don’t just lie in the dark waiting to give their flatmates a heart attack.”  
  
“You’ve survived a warzone. I’m pretty sure it would take more than this to give you a heart attack.” 

“I’d really rather not test that theory out.”  
  
John sinks down into his chair, as Sherlock asks, “So, how was the date?”  
  
“You don’t really want to know, do you?”  
  
“No, not particularly.” 

John catches sight of Sherlock’s arm, the sleeve rolled up, and three adhesive patches on his forearm. 

“Sherlock! You’re not supposed to smoke with nicotine patches on.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because that’s not the point of them! And because it’s not healthy to have that much nicotine in your system at once.” 

“I’m bored, John. I can’t stand it.” 

Sherlock throws the cigarette butt into the fire. When he glanced over, John sees an entire pile of extinguished cigarettes littering the hearth. 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock.”  
  
“So much profanity, John. I hope you don’t use that kind of language in front of your new _paramour._ ”  
  
“You mean Cynthia?”  
  
“What a common name.”  
  
“I think it’s a nice name.”  
  
“You think everything is _nice._ ”  
  
John has his mouth open, ready to fire back a retort, when Mrs. Hudson comes bustling up the stairs. 

“Sherlock, did you disconnect the doorbell again?”

“Maybe.”  
  
“You’ve got a client.”  
  
John lets out a grateful sigh, “Thank god.”  
  
“Is it that portly accountant again? I already told him, his wife is the one—”

“It’s a woman. A very pretty one, in fact. She says her name is Mary Morstan.”  
  
“Is her husband having an affair? I’m so tired of—” 

“Actually, Mr. Holmes, I’m very much unattached.” 

And with those words, Mary Morstan walks over the threshold and into the flat.  
  
Looking around, she adds, “Well this place certainly has a lot of, um, character.”  
  
Embarrassed, John starts grabbing handfuls of lab equipment and sweeping aside piles of papers in a vain attempt to make their flat look like less of a disaster, while Sherlock just makes a face and rolls his eyes. 

In response, John says, “You could give me hand with this. After all, this is mostly your mess.”  
  
“Why bother?”  
  
“Because we have a client.”  
  
“She’s not a client until I decide whether I want her to be one.”  
  
“Fine, a _potential_ client.”  
  
“Are you sure you don’t mean a _potential_ girlfriend? Because you didn’t go to all this trouble when that obese porn addict with a heart condition burst through our door.”  
  
John is prepared to fire back a retort, but before he can say anything else, Mary clears her throat and interjects— 

“The potential client is standing right here. You can stop talking about me in the third person.”  
  
Flushing with embarrassment, John says, “Yeah, sorry, we don’t get much company.”

Playfully, Mary says, “I can’t imagine why not.”  
  
“Maybe it’s because I’m a high functioning sociopath.”  
  
“Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t actually mean that.” 

“Um, yes I do.” 

“Sherlock, for once in your bloody life, could you just shut up.” 

“Only if you could go one night without throwing yourself at yet another female conquest.”  
  
“I am not—” 

“Yes, you are. Look at you! You practically started salivating the minute this woman walked into the room.”  
  
“I did not—” 

Their back and forth is interrupted by the sound of Mary chuckling to herself. 

Seeing her amusement, Sherlock turns on his heel and throws himself down on the sofa. For his part, John smiles sheepishly.

Once she stops laughing, Mary starts to ask, “You two aren’t a—” before trailing off.  
  
“Aren’t a what?”  
  
“A couple.”  
  
John says, “Oh god—no—how could you—no, we’re single. Both of us.”  
  
Sherlock clears his throat loudly.  
  
Crossly, John asks, “What?”  
  
“What about Cindy?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Your girlfriend. That woman that you were just telling me about—”  
  
“You mean Cynthia?” Redirecting his attention to Mary, John says, “She’s not, I mean, we’re not—”

Mary smiles warmly at John’s obvious discomfort, making Sherlock bristle.

“Did you come here for a reason, Ms. Morstan? Because I am quite busy—”

“No you’re not. We haven’t had a case in a week. You’re practically climbing up the walls—”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I do have a case—one that I hope you’ll be able to help me with. If you would be willing to spare me a couple moments of your time.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything in response, but John graciously steers Mary to an empty chair, before sitting down in the other armchair. Meanwhile, Sherlock continues to lie on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
Mary hesitates, but at John’s encouraging look, she says, “I hope you’ll forgive me for intruding at this late hour.”  
  
“Don’t worry, Sherlock’s always keeps us up all hours of the night.”  
  
Mary raises her eye brows and says, “Oh really?”  
  
Blushing again, John stammers, “Not—not like that.” 

Before Mary can say anything else, Sherlock interjects, “Could we get on with this?”  
  
“Yes of course. I think I have a matter that you will find very interesting. It pertains to my father. He was a military man—” 

“Your _dead_ father.” 

Sharply, John hisses, “Sherlock, we’ve talked about this.”

“About what?”  
  
“Tact.” 

“Tact is boring.”

Mary seems unperturbed, and says, “Yes, my father passed away a number of years ago, although I’m not sure how you could have known—”

“It’s quite obvious, really.” 

Sherlock pauses, as John lets out a deep sigh at the impending show-off routine. Sherlock gives him a sharp glare before diving in— 

“That ring, on your finger—a man’s ring, evident both by its design and by the fact that it had to be resized considerably to fit on your finger. It’s old, although well cared for, but not of suitable quality to be a family heirloom. You are smartly dressed, but that ring is not particularly fashionable, so clearly of sentimental value. And this is without getting into the very telling way that you nervously started fiddling with it as you were speaking. And presumably if your father were still alive, you would not have taken to wearing it.”

“Very impressive, Mr. Holmes.”

“Hardly.”

“Well, I’m impressed, and you are right on all accounts. That ring is one of the only things that he left behind when he died.”  
  
“So your father’s death is the reason you’ve come to me. But why now?”  
  
“I received a package, in the post, the other day.”  
  
“And what was in this package?”  
  
“I have it here.”  
  
Mary reaches into her bag and carefully lifts out a small bundle wrapped in cloth, and then gently unfolds it from the cloth.  
  
Sherlock reaches for it, but before she hands it over, Mary cautions, “Please don’t touch it directly.”  
  
Sherlock shoots her a curious look, but he follows her lead, cradling the object using the cloth, careful not to touch it.

Curious, John stands up, and goes to lean over Sherlock’s shoulder, and as he catches sight of the object, he says, “It’s a doll.”  
  
Sarcastically, Sherlock fires back, “Brilliant deduction, John. Anything else you’d care to share with us?”  
  
Without giving John a chance to respond, Sherlock says, “It’s a _matryoshka_ doll.” 

“A matr—what?” 

Mary answers before Sherlock has a chance to. “A Russian nesting doll. I collected them when I was a girl.”  
  
“You did?”  
  
“Yeah, well, my dad got me started with it. He was always bringing them back with him.”  
  
“Back from where?”  
  
“His travels—work related.”  
  
“For the military?”  
  
“I suppose, although it wasn’t really something we discussed.”  
  
Sherlock pauses, lost in a thought for a few moments, before saying, “Why now?”  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“Why are you coming to me tonight, at what you already noted is a very late hour?” 

“Well I received the package and—” 

“Ah, but you didn’t receive the package today, did you?”  
  
“No, like I said it was a few days ago—” 

“But you just got the results back today.”  
  
Suddenly interjecting, John says, “Results? What are you on about, Sherlock?”  
  
Mary answers before Sherlock can respond. “Yes, I did just get the results back today, Mr. Holmes.” 

Suddenly looking very interested, Sherlock leans in and asks, “So were they his?”  
  
“Yes, they were.”  
  
“But this is where it gets even more interesting, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes, but it's even more curious than that because—” 

Sherlock finishes the sentence for her, “His were the only ones.”  
  
Frustrated, John interrupts again, “Would you stop talking in bloody riddles?”  
  
His eyes still glowing with interest, Sherlock says offhandedly, “Fingerprints, on the doll. Her father’s fingerprints, and only his.”  
  
Mary asks, “So how did you guess?”  
  
“I never guess.”  
  
Warningly, John says, “Sherlock—” 

“You were clearly quite keen not to have me touch the doll—that in itself was more than enough of a clue. And of course, if you had this checked for fingerprints and they were inconclusive, why would you care who touched it?” 

“Mr. Holmes, I do hope you are able to make such quick work of the rest of this puzzle.”  
  
Suddenly in very good spirits, he says, “Call me Sherlock. I’m sure we’ll be spending plenty of time together.”  
  
“Oh we will?”  
  
“Yes, I’m going to set aside all my other cases to focus on this singularly interesting one.”  
  
“You don’t have any other cases.”  
  
“I might.”  
  
“You don’t.”  
  
Mary can’t help but start laughing again at their bickering. “You both really are too much.”

John opens his mouth to respond, but once again Sherlock has returned his focus to the case. Gently shaking the matroyshka doll, he says, “It’s empty.”  
  
“Yes, nothing inside.”  
  
Still using the cloth as a barrier, Sherlock gently separates the two halves of the doll, and then stands up, and moves closer to the light, and carefully scrutinizes the inside.  
  
After long moments of silence, John asks, “See anything useful?”  
  
“No—no writing, no markings.”  
  
After examining the inside of the doll, Sherlock looks more closely at the outside, and asks, “Do you still have any of the others?”  
  
“The other what?”  
  
“The dolls, that your father gave you.”  
  
“Yes, I should have all of them. They’re in storage, of course.”  
  
“Excellent. Bring them to me tomorrow, along with the original package that this came in.” 

Mary hesitates, “I might have thrown that out.” 

Sherlock gives her a sharp look, but John says, “Well, bring us anything you have.” 

“Yes of course. Would six o’clock tomorrow be all right?”  
  
“Perfectly fine for me, although I believe John here might be otherwise engaged.”  
  
“No, I don’t think so.”  
  
“Are you forgetting about your dinner plans?”  
  
“How could you possibly know—”  
  
“I nicked your phone and read your calendar while you were bathing in that putrid liquid that you call cologne.”  
  
“Sherlock—” 

“Really, John, going out with Cindy—”

“Cynthia—”  
  
“Fine, Cynthia—and then the next night making plans with Martha? It’s a wonder that you can even hold down a job. Oh wait, you don’t have a job.”  
  
“The only reason I don’t have a regular job is because I have to work around the clock to make sure you don’t blow up the city.”  
  
Sherlock looks like he’s about to take the bait, but instead he says good naturedly, “Ah, well, work is boring.”

Then, turning back to Mary, he adds, “But this case promises to be very interesting.”  
  
“So you’ll take it?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
Cheerily, Mary says, “Then I suppose I will see you two boys tomorrow.”  
  
Mary makes her way to the door, and John jumps out of his seat, to get the door for her.  
  
Once Mary is gone, John says, “Well she seems nice.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Mary.”  
  
“Already on a first name basis, are we?”  
  
“Well you told her to call you by your first name.”  
  
“Yes, but that’s only because ‘Mr. Holmes’ makes me feel like I’m impersonating Mycroft.”  
  
John doesn’t bother responding, because he can tell that Sherlock has already tuned out the rest of the world, as he stares at the doll where it lies in the middle of their kitchen table.   
  
Shaking his head and smiling to himself at his friend’s single mindedness, John makes his way up the stairs leaving Sherlock to bask in the promise of a very interesting new case.  
 


	2. The List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very long wait! I was struggling with a bit of writer's block for awhile, but I've been inspired by my recent trip across the pond to see Hamlet with Benedict Cumberbatch. I even got to have him sign my program afterwards. He's every bit as amazing as I always imagined. I also got a brief glimpse of Steven Moffat, who I guess went to see the play that way. It was pretty much the best day of my life. 
> 
> Anyway, enough of my rambling. I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

The next day, all three of them—John, Sherlock, and Mary—are gathered in the living area of 221b Baker Street. Arranged on various surfaces of the apartment are a number of Russian nesting dolls, lined up from largest to smallest in size. 

John is busy entertaining Mary, until Sherlock clears his throat loudly and says, “John, do you notice anything curious about any of these dolls?” 

“Well, they are kind of funny looking.”

  Mary smiles, while Sherlock just looks disgusted. “Any other incisive observations you’d care to share?” 

“No. Am I missing something?” 

“Everything! As usual. If you knew anything about the manufacturing of these dolls, you would know that they are produced in a very specific way. The smallest doll is made as a solid piece of wood, and the rest of the nesting dolls are made hollow to fit around the outside of it, but they are all made out of the same piece of wood.” 

“Um, okay—”  

“But if you notice, with each one of these, there is a clear seam on the smallest doll, and a quick examination of their weight shows that they are in fact completely hollow, and the inner doll is also much larger than you would typically find, except—” 

Mary comes over and looks at the doll more closely. “That one. That's the one I bought myself.” 

“And the rest were gifts from your father, yes?”

  Mary nods.

 “Interesting.” 

John has his mouth open, but before he can speak, Sherlock is already moving on to his next line of inquiry. 

“Mary, I need you to tell us everything you know about your father’s death.”

  “I don’t know very much, because it happened when he was away for work.”

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “When he didn’t come home, we tried to get in touch with him—”

“Your father was Captain James Morstan, is that correct?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “I have my ways. Did you know that he was originally classified as a missing person?”

  “No, but it makes sense. They never found a body, so they couldn’t declare him dead.”  

“Who was the first person to get in touch with you regarding your father's disappearance?”

  “Martin Short—he worked with my father.”  

“Had you been in contact with this man at all before your father’s disappearance?”

  “No, not that I can recall.” 

“And what exactly did your father do?”

  “He said it was classified, so he couldn’t tell us much.”  

“So he was involved in intelligence work?”  

“Yes, as far as I know.”

  “And where did he go on these ‘business trips’?” 

“He claimed that he was mostly going to the continent—France, Germany—”

“Claimed?”  

“I was always curious as a girl, so one day, while I was looking through his things, I found some documents—”

She pauses, but at Sherlock’s eager look, she goes on, “And there were passports, multiple passports, with stamps from countries that he never said he was visiting, mostly in Eastern Europe—Soviet bloc, including Russia—well, the USSR.”

  “What happened to everything after his disappearance?”  

“Oh, we lost almost all of it in the fire.”  

“A fire?”

  “Yes, some sort of electrical fire or something. The whole house burned to the ground.” 

“And you weren’t home when this happened?”

"I had already moved out by then. We were planning on selling the place."

“Where was your mother in all of this?”

  “She died when I was only a girl—ten years old.” 

“How?”

 “Cancer.”

  At this point, John responds, “That must have been hard, losing both of your parents.” 

“Yes, it was. My father and I became very close after my mother’s death.”  

Uninterested in John’s attempt to empathize, Sherlock asks, “And yet, you knew almost nothing about what he did in his work for the military?”

  “He preferred not to talk about it.”

  “Who did you stay with while your father was away, after your mother's death?” 

“My aunt, on my mother’s side. She took me in permanently when my father never came home.”  

“How old were you when your father died?”

  “I was seventeen.”

  “And your aunt—is she still alive?”

  “Yes, she lives in Bristol now, but we still keep in touch. I go to visit her whenever I can.”

  “But you grew up in London?”  

“Yes, my mum and dad—they both studied at Oxford, and then they moved to London after they graduated. My mum worked as a secretary until she became pregnant with me.” 

“And was your father always employed by the military?”

  “He started out wanting to be a teacher—he got his degree in history. I don’t know how he wound up in the military. He was already well into his career by the time I was born.”

“Do you have any other information about your father? Old contacts, papers, anything?”

  “I think my father had a safety deposit box—I remember coming across the key at some point, and when I packed up my things, I took it with me, but I don’t know where the box is, so I’m not sure how much help—”  

“Bring me the key, and we’ll go from there.”

“Okay, I’ll let you know once I find it.”

  As she prepares to leave, Mary asks, “Do you want me to take the dolls with me?”

  “No, leave them here for now.”

  John then quickly stands up and says, “Let me show you to the door.”

  Under his breath, Sherlock mutters, “The door is only ten feet away.”

  Mary smiles, and John gives him a dirty look, before helping Mary into her coat, and walking her down the stairs.

 

 

 By the time John returns to the flat, Sherlock has already disappeared, so John picks up his laptop and his notebook and starts writing.  A little while later, Sherlock comes in, to see John carefully reading over some papers, which John then quickly shoves into a folder once he hears Sherlock enter the room. 

Curious, Sherlock asks, “What's that?”  

“Nothing.”  

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have immediately tried to hide it when I walked into the room.”  

“Maybe if you weren’t in the habit of snatching my personal papers—”  

“Maybe if your _love letters_ weren’t so spectacularly amusing—”  

“That doesn’t give you the right—”

 Before John can finish his sentence, Sherlock makes an attempt to grab the papers, but John is too quick.   Then Sherlock looks over John’s head, towards the door, and says, “Oh look, it’s Mary.”

  John stands up and turns around quickly, dropping the folder and the papers, as he says, “I didn’t hear anyone come in—”

And then of course he realizes his error, when he turns back around to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, papers in hand. 

For his part, Sherlock is already quickly scanning the pages:

_Sherlock’s areas of expertise:_

_All things chemistry_  
_Classical Music_  
_Ecology where it pertains to crime solving (pollen samples, weather patterns)_  
_Current ~~events~~ crimes_  
_Forensics_  
_Anatomy and Physiology (Of dead people)_  
_Tobacco Ash_  
_Psychology (of criminals)_  
_Perfume identification_  
_Handwriting forensics_  
_Paper manufacturing_  
_~~Matroeshca Matraoshka~~ Those weird dolls _

_Things that Sherlock is completely clueless about:_  

_Celebrities_  
_Cooking_  
_The Royal Family_  
_The Solar System_  
_Eating and sleeping like a normal person_  
_Privacy_  
_Boundaries_  
_Signs of interest from the opposite sex_  
_Popular Culture_  
_~~Football,~~ ~~Rugby~~ All sports _  
_Tact_

_Yet to be determined:_

_Foreign Languages_  
_Literature_  
_Philosophy_  
_Art_  
_Sex_ _  
_

Once he’s finished reading the list, Sherlock looks at John and says, with a hint of scorn, “Is this for the blog as well?”

  “No, I just, I don’t know, started keeping track of these things.”    
  
“Any particular reason?”    
  
“Amusement? Future blackmail? Questions for your parents if I ever meet them? Does it really matter?” 

Sherlock looks down at the papers, and then back up at John, and says, “I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent dancer.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I am.”

  John looks skeptical. “Really?”  
  
  “Yes, quite.”

  “Okay, anything else on that list you’d care to enlighten me about?”    
  
“I never learned how to play chess.”    
  
“Then why do you have a chess set?”    
  
“It’s a family heirloom.”

  “But chess seems so, well, you. Did you really never learn how to play?”  
  
  “Mycroft tried to teach me several times.”  
  
  “So, what, you decided never to learn to spite your brother?”    
  
“Yep.”  

“How mature.”

“That was his response as well.”  
  
  John motions towards the papers, and Sherlock throws them in his general direction.

 After gathering them up, John makes a few notes, and then turns back to Sherlock and says, “What else?”  

Sherlock shrugs. 

Attempting to be casual, John says, “How about literature? Or… sex?”

  Sherlock gives him a sharp look. “I’m quite aware of the mechanics of sex, yes.”    
  
“Have you ever...”  

John trails off, but Sherlock snaps, “Why does this matter? It’s not as if you see me inquiring into your sex life.”    
  
“Well, you do spend a lot of time interfering in my romantic life.” 

“That’s different.”

  “Yeah?” 

“Your romantic life interferes with The Work.”

“I could just as easily say ‘The Work’ interferes with my romantic life.” 

Sherlock stands up abruptly and starts pacing. “You mean _I_ interfere with your romantic life. That’s what your saying, isn’t it? After all, Sherlock Holmes knows nothing about Tact or the Solar System or Boundaries or the Royal Family or being a nice normal boring human being.”

  “You know that’s not what I—” 

Now Sherlock turns to face John, and says, harshly, “Congratulations, Dr. Watson, you live with a high functioning sociopath. What else did you expect?”

And then, in a fit of pique, he snatches the papers out of John’s hands, and rips them into pieces.  

“Jesus Christ, what’s gotten into you today? I would think this case would have put you in a better mood.”

  “I can’t very well enjoy the case with you practically drooling all over the client. Maybe you should go off on your dates with your string of woman who you couldn’t care less about and leave me alone.”  
  
  “Sherlock, look, I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean anything by the list.”  
  
  Sherlock snorts derivisively.  

“I didn’t. It’s part of what makes you, well, you. You’re bloody brilliant, absolutely amazing, and yet you don’t know that the Earth goes around the sun.”  
  
  Sherlock’s expression softens a bit at that, although he still continues to sulk on the couch, pointedly ignoring John.  

After a bit of time has passed, John says, “So, what do you make of the case so far?”    
  
“Oh, I don’t know.”  

“Come on, I’m sure you have several theories that you can’t wait to dazzle me with.”    
  
“I wouldn’t want to bore you with them. After all, I’m sure you have some date to get ready for.”  
  
  “You won’t and you know that I don’t.”

  When Sherlock still doesn’t respond, John says, “Fine. I’ll go first. So, do you think that Mary’s father was some sort of spy? Maybe a military deserter?”  

As John well knew, Sherlock couldn’t resist correcting John. “No, I don’t think so. I’m more inclined to believe that the military career was just a cover, but for what, I can only guess. I’ve sent out some inquiries to various contacts, and I expect to hear back from them in the next day or so.”    
  
“Anything else?”    
  
“The timing of the fire is suspicious, and I’m inclined to believe that the it may have been set very deliberately, but for the time being, there’s no evidence to prove or disprove that particular theory.”    
  
“And what about these Matroski dolls.”    
  
“You mean the Matryoshka dolls?”    
  
“Yeah, those.” 

 “They are almost certainly a crucial clue to this case. It’s possible they were used to transport something—drugs, money, expensive metals—it’s hard to say.”

 Still attempting to soothe Sherlock’s ruffled deathers, John says, “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond to that, although he does look the tiniest bit pleased. And then, he stands up in one fluid motion, picks up his violin, and starts to play.

 

 

The next morning, when John comes down the stairs, and goes into the kitchen to try to find something suitable for breakfast, he notices several pieces of paper, stacked carefully on the table. Upon closer inspection, he realizes that this was a replica, in Sherlock’s handwriting, of the list he had ripped up the previous day.

Except, upon closer inspection, he notices that a few things have been added.

_ Sherlock’s areas of expertise: _

_All things chemistry_  
_Classical Music_  
_Ecology where it pertains to crime solving (pollen samples, weather patterns)_  
_Current_ ~~events~~ crimes  
_Forensics_  
_Anatomy and Physiology (Of dead people)_  
_Tobacco Ash_  
_Psychology (of criminals)_  
Perfume identification   
Handwriting forensics  
_Paper manufacturing_  
_Matryoshka dolls_  
**_Dance (ballroom, not modern)  
_ ** _**Foreign Languages (Latin, Ancient Greek, French, Italian, Spanish, Russian, etc)**_

_Things that Sherlock is completely clueless about:_  
  
_Celebrities_  
_Cooking_  
_The Royal Family_  
_The Solar System_  
_Eating_  
_Privacy_  
_Boundaries_  
_Signs of interest from the opposite sex_  
_Popular Culture_  
_~~Football, Rugby~~ All sports _  
_Tact_  
**_Chess_  
_Philosophy_**

_Yet to be determined:_

_Literature_  
_Art  
_ _Sex_

With a small smile, John folds the paper in half and tucks it in a notebook, before grabbing some biscuits, and heading over to his chair to read the paper in the few peaceful moments before Sherlock comes out and makes John go run around London looking for clues.

Of course, at the end of the day, it's just like he said to Sherlock yesterday during their row. He wouldn't have it any other way. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The list of Sherlock’s strengths and weaknesses is based on a similar list that Watson makes in A Study in Scarlet. One of my goals with this story is to pull in more things from the original ACD stories. 
> 
> Anyway, I know these first two chapters may seem a bit slow, but I promise that there is plenty of crime solving action as well as lots of Johnlock stuff in upcoming chapters. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think of this story so far :)


	3. Meeting Martin Short

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read and commented on the story so far. This chapter picks up right where the previous one left off. Happy reading :)

A few hours later, John is just ready to upload his latest blog post—the Adventure of the Blue Car Buckle—when he hears the front door open and shut loudly, and the sound of footsteps running up the stairs.

Then, a moment later, Sherlock barges in the room, breathing heavily, but with the look of excitement and exhilaration that he only gets when he’s in the midst of a particularly exciting case.

By way of greeting, John says, “I didn’t realize you were up already.”  
  
“What’s the use in sleeping when there’s something so much more interesting to occupy my mind?”  
  
“Maybe because sleep is a basic and necessary function of the human body. Sort of like, you know, eating.”  
  
Sherlock scoffs, and says, “Eating and sleeping. How _boring._ ”  
  
“Yes, well, not all of us can subsist off of air, tea, and crime, so I’m going to have some lunch. Want anything?”  
  
Already lost in thought, Sherlock says, “Hm?”

“Lunch. Food. Want any?”  
  
“No, it will only slow me down. I never—”

“Eat on a case. Yeah, I know. Just thought I’d offer.”  
  
After throwing together a sandwich and making a mental note to do some shopping, John goes back into the living area, to find Sherlock typing away at his—John’s—laptop.

“And this is why boundaries and privacy were on the list.”  
  
“You had it open. It’s not even password protected any more.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. I’ve given up since it’s not like a password has ever stopped you. Although maybe if I used the name of my last girlfriend—or Lestrade’s first name—yeah, that might work.”  
  
“You mean Gary Lestrade?”  
  
“Ha, yeah, there we go.”  
  
But Sherlock is already back to ignoring John.  
  
After eating his sandwich quietly for a few minutes, John stops and asks, “So have you gotten anywhere with the case?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The case? Mary?”  
  
“Ah, yes, the case. I’ve got a few promising leads.”  
  
“Care to share?”  
  
“Sure you wouldn’t rather devote yourself to courting one of the few women in the city who hasn’t turned you down yet?”  
  
“Very funny. Do you want my help with the case or? Or should I just leave you with the skull?”

“Yes, okay. What do you want to know?”  
  
“How about where you’ve been for the last four hours?”  
  
*Seven hours, actually.”

“But that would mean you left the house at—” 

“Five am, yes.”  
  
“You really are eager, aren’t you?”

“I had to go to Oxford.”  
  
“Why?”

“Weren’t you listening? Yesterday?” 

“Clearly not as closely as you were.”  
  
“Ah, yes, you were too busy evaluating our client for your future romantic overtures.”  
  
“Really, Sherlock—”  
  
“Oxford, that’s where her parents met, where her father got his degree.”  
  
“Right, history.”  
  
“Oh, so you were paying attention.”  
  
“Yeah, well I’m not a total idiot, you know.”  
  
Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise, before moving on. “Mary didn’t mention it, but her father did some graduate level work while he was there. I had to go in person—it’s archived, but nothing that old is available online. It took a bit of persuasion, but I was able to access some of the papers he wrote.”  
  
“And? Were they useful?”  
  
“I can’t say for sure, yet.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“They certainly were suggestive **.** It seemed he had a particular interest in twentieth century Russian history. World War I up through the Cold War.”  
  
“Yeah, so? A lot of people studied that.”  
  
“Yes, but he seemed to be especially fixated on one very particular quirk of that time period.”  
  
Sherlock pauses, for dramatic effect, but before he can go any further, there interrupted by the sound of someone coming up the stairs, a quick knock on the door, and then Mary comes in.

“The note on the door said I should go ahead and come upstairs.”  
  
John looks questioningly at Sherlock, although Sherlock doesn’t make eye contact with John. 

For his part, Sherlock directs his next remark to Mary. “So, do you have it?”  
  
“The key? Yes, I brought it with me.”

“Excellent.”  
  
“But I still don’t know where the box is.”  
  
“Yes, but I do.”  
  
“Really? How?”  
  
John chimes in, “How did you have time to do all of that this morning?”  
  
“I made a few enquiries. Police logs, a bit of research, a few phone calls. Easy enough to do on the train.”  
  
“Okay, so where is it then?”  
  
“Hatton Garden.” 

At that, Mary says, “But I’ve called around to all the locations of safety deposit boxes in London. None of them had any record of a safety deposit box in my father’s name.”  
  
“Yes, that’s because it wasn’t in his name. It was under what I can only assume is an alias, John Morse.”  
  
“So then how did you find it? If it wasn’t under his name?”  
  
“Timing.”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“They say correlation doesn’t equal causation, but in this case, it is exactly that.”  
  
With slight irritation, John interjects and says, “Could you stop speaking in riddles?”  
  
Ignoring John, Sherlock addresses Mary. “The fire. It happened twenty years ago, didn’t it?”  
  
“Yes, almost exactly.”  
  
“Well, as I told John yesterday, I suspected that the fire was not a simple accident. The timing, so soon after your father’s death, it certainly seemed like a bit much for coincidence.”  
  
“But how did you connect that to the safety deposit box?”  
  
“I extrapolated that whoever set fire to the house may very well have tried to access whatever was in the box, so, I looked at the police logs from that time period, to see if there were any break ins—attempted or successful—at any safety deposit box location either in the days before or directly after the fire.”  
  
“And were there?”  
  
“Yes, obviously.”  
  
“At Hatton Garden?”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“And you’re sure it’s related?”  
  
“Quite.”  
  
“How can you be so sure?”  
  
“Because nothing was taken.”  
  
“But then why—“

“Why would they break in and not take anything?”  
  
“Yeah—”

“It’s hard to say for sure, but I suspect that although they were able to get through security, they were unable to successfully open your father’s box. Or, possibly, they did succeed in opening it, and did not find what they were hoping for. It’s too soon to say for sure, one way or the other.”

After a few moments pause, Mary asks, “So what now?”  
  
“We need to pay someone a visit.”  
  
“At Hatton Garden?”

“No, Pentonville.”  
  
“Sorry, where?”  
  
“Pentonville—the prison.”  
  
“Why—”  
  
“Because that’s the current location of the man who went by the name of Martin Short.”  
  
“The friend of my father’s?”  
  
“One and the same.”  
  
“You said, ‘went by.’So Martin Short was an alias?”  
  
“Yes, so it would seem.”  
  
“What’s he in jail for? And how did you find him without knowing his name?”  
  
“Ah, this is where it gets good. This is quite the case you brought to our door, Mary. The best one we’ve had in ages.”  
  
Warningly John says, “Sherlock, try not to act like you’re enjoying this so much.”  
  
“Why not? This is why we do what we do. It’s _fun_.”  
  
“Yeah, but maybe try to reign in a bit.”  
  
“Why? You enjoy it too. Mary doesn’t mind.”  
  
John looks to Mary, questioningly, and in response she says, “No, not at all. This is the most excitement I’ve had in awhile as well.”  
  
Surprised, and just the slightest bit pleased, John says, “So, you like this kind of thing?”  
  
“I certainly do now.”  
  
As Mary and John share a warm look, Sherlock starts to mime gagging, which John catches, although thankfully Mary doesn’t.

To diffuse the situation, John returns his attention to Sherlock. “Anyway, you were saying?”  
  
“Jonathan Small. Alias, Martin Short. A bit obvious really.”  
  
“That’s how you figured it out? What did you do, look through every single prisoner and just hope the name jumped out at you?”  
  
“No, no. The internet, John. It’s a beautiful thing. As are Mycroft’s various and sundry connections.”  
  
“He agreed to help you with this?”  
  
“No, I just used his credentials. Much quicker.”  
  
At that, John rolls his eyes, while Mary asks, “Mycroft? Who’s that?”

Sherlock says, “No one of importance,”as John says simultaneously, “His brother.”  
  
“You have a brother?”  
  
“Yes, yes, but that’s not important.”  
  
“It’s just hard to imagine you having…”

John fills in when she trails off, “Family? Friends? Yeah, I know. It will all make sense if you ever meet his brother. Trust me, don’t even try to imagine Christmas at the Holmes’household.”  
  
Impatiently, Sherlock says, “As I was saying, I did a search of prison records in the UK, and found this man, Jonathan Small, who has been imprisoned on a number of colorful charges, including the falsification of personal documents. He created multiple aliases in the process, including one Martin Short.”  
  
Looking quite pleased, Mary says, “That’s brilliant.”She pauses, and then adds, “You said there were multiple charges. Did one of the charges involve the safety deposit box?”  
  
Despite himself, Sherlock says, approvingly, “Yes, as a matter of fact, he was charged with attempted theft and breaking and entering on those very premises.” 

Now, John breaks in, “How long has he been in prison for? He can’t have been in there for twenty years just based on that.”  
  
“No, there is quite a bit more to it than that. Not all of it bears mentioning, but one salient point is that before his arrest, he had made his way out of the UK, and he had to be extradited before he could go trial.”  
  
“All that for someone who didn’t even manage to steal anything?”  
  
“Although this wasn’t in the charges, I suspect they considered him to be national security risk. A spy, perhaps.”  
  
“A spy?”  
  
“Yes, a soviet spy, in particular. At the very least, that was where he was headed, although he was intercepted in Belgium before he ever made it to the Russian border.”  
  
Sherlock pauses, but when John and Mary don’t ask any further questions he says, “John, grab your coat. We need to leave now if we want to get there in time for visiting hours.”  
  
“Okay, sure.”  
  
While John starts to gather his things, Mary asks, “Can I come along?”  
  
John expects Sherlock to turn her down, so he’s surprised when Sherlock says, “Yes, I think that would be best.”

And with that, the three of them are out the door, hopping into the first cab that stops outside the flat, and then they’re off to their destination.  
  


 

When they arrive at the prison, Sherlock leads the way, walking authoritatively towards the nearest guard, with John and Mary trailing behind him.

“We’re here to see Jonathan Small.”  
  
The guard looks down at a list and says, “I don’t see any visitors scheduled for him.”  
  
“I’m here on official police business.”  
  
“Are you now? I don’t suppose you have any proof?”  
  
Obligingly, Sherlock says, “Yes, of course.”  
  
To both John and Mary’s surprise, Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out a badge.  
  
The guard examines it for a moment, and says, “I’ll have them bring him right up, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”  
  
Mary looks confused, but John gives a quick shake of his head, and mouths, “I’ll explain later.”  
  
After giving the order for Jonathan Small to be brought to the visiting room, he turns to Sherlock and says, “Are these two with you?”  
  
“Yes, they are. They’ll need to accompany me. “  
  
“Ah, okay, why not. Go through that door, all three of you. They’ll have to do a quick search—procedure, you know how it is—and then one of the guards will take you to the visitors room.”

“Excellent. We appreciate it.” 

Once all three of them had been searched and handed over their personal belongings for the duration of their visit, they are escorted into the room, and directed to the table where a man, sits hunched over, prematurely grey, aged beyond his years. He doesn’t even bothering making eye contact until all three of them are seated opposite him at the table, and Sherlock says— 

“Jonathan Small, I don’t suppose you know who we are?”  
  
“I’ve never seen the three of you in my life.”

"You can call me Sherlock, this is John Watson, and as for her," Sherlock nods in Mary's direction, pauses, and says quietly to her, “Do you have the picture I told you to bring?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s right here. ”Mary points to a location under her shirt.  
  
At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow she says, “I wanted to make sure they didn’t take it off of me when we went through security.”  
  
In response, Sherlock nods approvingly, and Mary deftly reaches into her blouse, and pulls out said picture.  
  
Sherlock notices John’s rather wide eyed expression as he watches Mary pull out the picture, and Sherlock kicks him in the shin. 

Wincing, John bites out, “Hey, that hurt.”  
  
But Sherlock has already turned his attention back to the inmate. “Maybe this picture will jog your memory.”  
  
He sets the picture face up on the table. While Small leans forward to get a better look at the photo, John attempts to make a subtle examination of the photo from his position on the other side of the table.

It’s old, worn around the edges, color faded. John instantly recognizes Mary—a much younger Mary, about 12 years old—and a man that John can only assume is her father.  
  
John is distracted from his examination of the photo by the sharp intake of breath from the other side of the table, and when he looks up, he notices that the prisoner’s features are taut, and his skin has taken on a sudden pallor.

After staring transfixed at the photo for several long moments, Small looks up at Mary and says, “I didn’t recognize you. I’ve only seen pictures of you, as a girl. It’s a shame that your father couldn’t see you grow up.”

“So you knew him then? My dad?”  
  
“Yes, James Morstan. I knew him well.”  
  
“How?”  
  
Jonathan Small suddenly looks guarded.  
  
Sensing the prisoner’s hesitation, Sherlock says, “I know that you have been convicted on several false charges. If you help us, I will do everything in my power to see that you get off.”  
  
“Why? What are you, a detective?”  
  
“Of sorts. A freelance detective, you might say.”

Small looks torn, at first, but then, keeping his eyes fixed on Mary he says, “Okay, I’ll tell you everything I know. I owe this much to you and to your father.” 

With feeling, Mary says, “Thank you.”  
  
Small nods, and then looks to Sherlock. “So, what do you want to know?”

“Why don’t I start by telling you the facts I’ve gather already. You can correct me and fill in any gaps that your are able, keeping in mind the particulars of our location.”  
  
Sherlock casually looks around the room, his eyes indicating the guards and cameras scattered everywhere.

Small follows his gaze, and then with a nod says, “Okay, let’s have it then.”  
  
Lowering his voice, Sherlock says, “It was the Romanian one, wasn’t it? That’s what this whole business was about? What you and Captain Morstan were transporting?”  
  
Small’s eyes get wide, and he nods slowly. John catches Mary’s eye, and sees that she looks as puzzled as he is.

“How did you know?”  
  
“The how isn’t important, and here is certainly not the place to discuss it. Now, the fire, do you know anything about that?”  
  
“It wasn’t me, that much I can tell you.”  
  
“So it was set on purpose. Who was it then?”  
  
“I imagine it was the same person who broke into the vault and framed me for it.”  
  
Looking satisfied, Sherlock says, “Yes, I expected as much. Do you have any idea who that might have been?”  
  
“I can only guess. There was a man—” 

Sherlock shakes his head once to stop Small mid sentence and says, “Now is neither the time nor the place to share that kind of information.”  
  
“But how—”

“You can use the old ways—pen and paper are best under the circumstances—that was your custom for communication was it not?”  
  
Small nods.  
  
“Good. I’ll send someone over tonight—an officer, Lestrade, you can trust him. I assume you have access to a book?”

“Bible is the easiest.”  
  
“King James? Yes, that should work.” 

“Okay, so anything else you want to know now?”  
  
Before Sherlock can say anything, Mary says, “My father. Do you know—did you see…”

When Mary can’t quite get out the words, Sherlock fills in. “Do you know what happened to Captain Morstan?” 

A shadow passes over the prisoner’s features, and he sighs deeply, shaking his head slowly, as he says, quietly, “It was a bad business, start to finish. I think the stress of it—maybe he had a bad heart, I don’t know—but as best as I can tell, he was pushed to the brink by everything. It catches up with us all, in the end.” 

Impatiently, Sherlock interjects, “But how exactly did it happen?”  
  
“We were transporting the—“  
  
Small pauses, and Sherlock says, “Yes, the cargo. Go on.”  
  
“We were on the train. We were both in a private cabin, and I stepped out to try to get some food from the meal car, and when I came back, he was shaking, gasping for breath, his face bright red, and then, the strangest thing, the last thing he said to me—choked out, I don’t even know if I heard him correctly—he said, ‘Almonds.”

“Almonds? You’re sure?”  
  
“Yeah, as sure as I can be. But then right after, he seized up again and—and then that was it. I called for a doctor, of course, but rigor mortis was already setting in by the time we got to a station.”

“Was there anything else, anything that you noticed in the room, at the time? Anything out of place? Unusual sounds? Smells?”  
  
Small pauses, staring off in the distance contemplatively. Then, he says, “There was one thing. The window. He was sitting a few feet from it, at the table, when I left him, and best as I can recall, that window was closed when I left—it was quite cold outside, middle of winter, after all—but when I came back, when I found him, he was on the floor, back to the wall, directly underneath it—and the window was open.”  
  
Small shakes his head in an attempt to banish the images from his memory. “Strange business, all around. If you can makes sense of it, you’re a better man than me.” 

All Sherlock says is, “One more thing. Did any of them—the cargo—ever go missing?”  
  
“Not to my knowledge.”  
  
“But it is possible? Either under your watch or Captain Morstan’s? Did you have some particular inventory or other method for keeping track?”  
  
“We kept an inventory of sorts, wasn’t perfect, though. But I don’t know who would have had the means or the knowledge—it was a fairly tightly run operation, as these things go.”  
  
“Still, within the realm of possibility?”  
  
“It’s possible. Is there something—” 

Without letting him finish his sentence, Sherlock stands up, as if preparing to leave, and then he says offhandedly, “Any idea what’s in the vault?”  
  
Small pauses, before saying, “No, I don’t know what he kept there.”  
  
“So you never went there yourself?”  
  
“No, not that I remember.”

“Ah, very well then. I suppose we’ll find out one way or the other. If you do think of anything that will be of assistance to us, be sure to let us know.”  
  
And with that, Sherlock turns around and walks back towards the guards, with Mary and John quickly getting up and following him.

 

 

  
  
During the cab ride back to Baker Street, after several failed attempts to get any information out of Sherlock, John focused his attention on entertaining Mary with stories of their previous cases. The only sign that Sherlock was paying them any attention was the occasional sigh or eye roll, and a few corrections that he couldn’t help himself from providing.  
  
Beyond that, though, Sherlock doesn’t say a word until all three of them are back in 221b.  
  
Before they even have a chance to take off their coats, Sherlock says, “So, you have questions.” 

John opens his mouth to speak, but then pauses, to let Mary go first. “Yeah, a few.”  
  
“They’ll have to wait, I’m afraid.”  
  
“Do you have somewhere else to go?”  
  
“Yes, Hatton Garden. We should head there straight away.”

Now, John asks, “Then why didn’t you just tell the driver to go there?”  
  
“I have a few arrangements I need to make first. Oh, and Mary and I will be going. You’ll stay here.”  
  
“Wait, why—”

“I need you here when Lestrade comes by. He'll be picking up the letter from Jonathan Small within a few hours.”  
  
“Can’t he just leave the message with Mrs. Hudson? Or you could go by Scotland Yard—”

Sherlock holds up his hand to stop John mid-sentence. “No, this is too important. He needs to deliver the message to one of us. Besides, we’ll attract less attention if it’s Mary and her solicitor—that would be me, obviously—who access the vault.”  
  
“Why can’t you wait here for Lestrade, and Mary and I can go to Hatton Garden?”  
  
“Because you might miss something important. Besides, as I said, I have a few arrangements to make.”

“Yeah, okay, fine. I’ll wait here.”

“Good.” Turning to Mary, Sherlock says, “I’ll only be a moment.”  
  
And with that, Sherlock heads down the hall, towards his bedroom. Once he’s out of sight, Mary looks to John and says, “Do you have any idea where he’s going with all of this? I didn’t follow half of what he was saying back at the prison.”  
  
“Trust me, I got even less of it than you did, but that’s Sherlock for you. He’ll explain everything when he’s ready. Or he won’t, but just go with it for now. You’ll get used to it.”  
  
Before Mary has a chance to respond, Sherlock has already returned, with a briefcase that John has never seen before, and Sherlock says to Mary, “Do you have the key?”  
  
At her nod of affirmation, all he says is “Good,” before making his way out the door.

Mary quickly grabs her purse and says to John, “Well, I guess I’ll see you in a bit.”  
  
With a wry smile, John says, “Yep, I’ll just be here, waiting for some secret message.”

Mary is about to respond, when Sherlock shouts up, “Are you coming?”  
  
And so John says, “Better go. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”And then, with that, Mary heads out the door.  
  
For his part, John sinks down onto the couch, turns on the TV, and resigns himself to an afternoon of watching crap telly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavy on the plot progression, but I promise there will be some more Johnlock focused scenes in the near future. There are also a lot of pieces of the case that are still yet to be revealed, but if anyone wants to share their guesses about the case so far, or feedback on the story, I would love to hear from you :)

**Author's Note:**

> We’ll get a lot more details about the case and the circumstances surrounding her father’s death in the next chapter, but this chapter was already getting pretty long, so I decided to save the rest for later. Also, this story is not going to be a John/Mary romance. The main relationship is definitely going to be John/Sherlock, although they have a lot of stuff to sort out first.
> 
> Anyway, I'd really love to hear what you thought of this first chapter! Thanks for reading :)


End file.
